All Bets Are Off
by PollyCrackers
Summary: Exotic animals and the bathroom floor. Marshall's witness is attacked the same day someone from her past shows up in a most unusual way. Can Marshall and Mary keep her safe?
1. Prologue

**Albuquerque, NM**

**Present Day**

Betsy held her breath and unzipped the body bag, unleashing a tidal wave of acrid stink into the room. "Ugh," she exclaiming, burying her nose in the crook of her elbow. "That's…zesty."

Marshall mirrored her response, taking a step back from the body for good measure and impressed that Betsy held her ground. "Wuss," teased Betsy. "You want a mask?"

"Will it help?"

"No, not really," she said, shaking her head. "Hope you ate lunch already, 'cause the smell 's gonna stick with you all day." Betsy continued to open the bag, carefully tucking the plastic around the dead man. His decomposing body laid in a pool of vile liquid, his green and black mottled skin peeling from him in thin sheets. The coroner had performed an autopsy, leaving a Y-incision across his torso and another from ear to ear; maggots gathered near his nose and mouth. Betsy wrinkled her nose. "I hate maggots."

Marshall stepped towards the body and peered down. "Did you know that doctors use maggots to debride wounds of dead tissue?"

"Yes, and…ew," was Betsy's reply.

Marshall watched as Betsy hovered over the body. "Anything unusual, besides the smell?"

"The smell's bad, not unusual," she corrected. She began carefully examining the body. "Nothing's jumping at out me. Probably shot himself in the mouth—back of his skull is in more pieces than normal. Coroner kept his jaw for ID purposes, in case any clues to his identity ever surface. He looks like a guy who shot himself in his car in the middle of the desert, there's nothing here—" Betsy froze. She'd lifted the decedent's left arm, exposing a tattoo on his hip. A panther snarled at her, red eyes gleaming, massive teeth bared and claws outstretched. Bile burned the back of her throat. She gently let go of the man's arm, and focused on his face, softly touching his swollen eyes.

"Bets, what is it?" asked Marshall.

Betsy shook her head and tears spilled down her cheeks; tossing her gloves in the biohazard trash, she backed up until she was leaning against the desk, no longer certain of her legs' ability to support her. Her eyes met Marshall's. "I know why they couldn't ID him. He's not from around here."


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: For the sake of this story, we're going to petend that Mary and Marshall have been partners for more like 5-6 years instead of 3-4. I have no clue just how long this will end up being, as I don't write chronologically. I like to write the interesting parts first and then go back and fill in the gaps. So, I'm not entirely sure how it'll all play out, but I hope you enjoy the ride**.

**Inspired by the friendship Marshall shared with Norman from "Duplicate Bridge," and the idea that, every now and then, a witness becomes deeply enmeshed in a marshal's heart.**

**Reviews lure my muse out of hiding. =)**

~Four Years Ago~

The phone rang. Marshall swatted at the nightstand in the dark till he found his prey. "Stan," read the illuminated display. Along with the time: 12:13 a.m. on a Saturday Marshall groaned—no way Stan was calling at this hour with good news. He finally answered on the third ring: "Hey chief, what's up?"

Stan didn't waste time with niceties. "Shit hit the fan at the St. Paul office. They've got a leak and an attempt was made on a witness. She's ours now. You and Mary are heading out there tonight."

"Goody," muttered Marshall as he got out of bed.

"Don't suppose you'd like to be the one to call you partner?" asked Stan.

"Nice try, Stan."

Stan sighed. "It was worth a shot. I'll meet you at the office with details."

"Be there in twenty."

* * *

Marshall heard rather than saw Mary's car as the purple heap rattled and wheezed into the parking lot. When she got out of the car he noticed her makeup was smeared and she wore yesterday's outfit.

"You weren't, by any chance, in the middle of something?" Marshall said with a smirk.

"It was more of an 'on top of' than a 'middle,'" replied Mary, tucking in her shirt.

Marshall opened the door and Mary led the way into the lobby of the Sunshine Building, still straightening her clothes. "Thanks for the visual—that was wholly unnecessary," he cracked.

Mary pushed the button for the elevator and smiled. "You're welcome."

On the seventh floor, Mary and Marshall met up with Stan, who was already in a conference room with a file spread out on the table. He explained that the St. Paul office had experienced a massive security breach and the entire office was in lockdown. Another witness in a separate case had been gunned down while picking up his dry cleaning. Marshals from outside the area were being brought in to look after witnesses until the source of the breach could be confirmed.

"Turns out that the same marshal, one Inspector Mark Andersen, was in charge of both witnesses," said Stan. He showed his inspectors a photo of a white man in his late fifties; hazy blue eyes peered out from amidst a thick coif of hair, plus a full beard and mustache, all of which were a suspiciously uniform shade of dark brown.

Mary tilted her head, studying the photo. "I'm sure it simply _must _be a coincidence."

"I bet," replied Marshall.

Stan continued. "Marshall's going to be in charge on this one." Mary opened her mouth to protest, but Stan stopped her with a look. "And we don't have time to argue about it now."

Marshall threw Mary a self-satisfied smirk. She returned it with a scowl. "What's her story?" asked Marshall..

Stan touched on the witness' history, pointing out relevant documents from the file. "Betsy Warner, age 23, originally of New Orleans. Her testimony's key to dismantling one of the largest prostitution, gambling, and counterfeiting operations in the US. Entered Witness Protection six months ago, has been living in St. Paul since then."

"Wow, that's one hell of a conglomerate," said Marshall, studying a long list of criminal charges filed by the federal prosecutor.

"Makes perfect sense," said Mary. "Lose money gambling, just go print some more. Lemme guess, she's a hooker?"

"_Was _a hooker," Stan corrected. "And until last night, she was Betsy Walters, department-store makeup salesgirl."

Mary looked up from a photo of Betsy. "One of those helmet-haired attack dogs with the perfume and the racing-stripe blush? I liked her better when she was a hooker."

**~To be continued~**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: I made a few changes to this chapter, adding random facts for Marshall to spout, just cuz it's so cute when he does that. ;-)**

Marshall and Mary stepped off the plane at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport into the chilly pre-dawn air of St. Paul in springtime. They'd spent the flight reviewing the case folder, focusing on photos of the numerous people who'd benefit from the death of Betsy Warner. And that didn't even include the mole within the Marshal Service, which is why Stan had instructed his inspectors to be even more diligent than usual when it came to security—even to the point of using their aliases with other members of law enforcement, including other marshals.

An unmarked police car and a black SUV with heavily tinted windows were parked on the tarmac; a pair of St. Paul's finest leaned against the hood of the sedan, smoking cigarettes. They straightened and stomped out their butts on the asphalt as Marshall and Mary walked down the stairs from the commuter jet and set their overnight bags near the SUV. The taller officer had blond hair and the physique of a former star athlete in high school, or even college, but whose gut couldn't be contained as the years crept by; he reached out a hand towards Marshall. "You must be Inspector Miller," he said as his thick fingers engulfed Marshall's hand in a firm handshake. "I'm Officer Goodwin, and this,"—Max nodded towards his companion, a compact woman of indeterminate age with close-cropped hair. Marshall gathered from her petite but sturdy build she'd once been a dedicated gymnast; Mary thought she looked like a butch munchkin. "This," continued Max, "is Officer Leslie Short."

"You can say that again," Mary muttered under her breath. Marshall elbowed her in the side.

"What was that you said?" asked Leslie, pretty sure Mary did just say what she thought she said.

"I'm Inspector Mary Shepard, U.S. Marshals." replied Mary with a smile. She reached her hand out; Leslie frowned, but shook it anyway.

Pleasantries exchanged, Max handed Marshall the key to the SUV. "She's all yours."

"First things first," said Mary. She asked to borrow a flashlight. Leslie scowled, but handed hers over anyway. Mary scanned the vehicle from grill to tailgate in meticulous detail, searching for signs of any sort of tracking device or other sabotage. Satisfied with the condition of the vehicle, she nodded at Marshall and returned the flashlight. "We're good to go."

"Thank you, officers, for your assistance," said Marshall. He placed his and Mary's bags in the back of the truck and got into the driver's seat.

"No problem," replied Max. "A couple hours shootin' the shit sure beats a long night of breaking up bar fights."

Mary opened the passenger-side door. "Now, don't let us catch you following us," she said, only half joking.

"Orders are to give you a half-hour head start to wherever the hell you're going at this ungodly hour," said Max.

* * *

Marshall wound his way through the streets of St. Paul, circuitously making his way to the hospital and keeping an eye out for anyone who may be following them. Time and again, the GPS they'd brought with them from Albuquerque remapped the route.

"I think the little woman who live in the GPS is going to reach out and smack you if keep ignoring her," said Mary.

Marshall kept his eyes focused on the road ahead and in his rear-view mirror. "She doesn't scare me. I've got you for a partner." He turned to Mary and gave her a sly smile.

Forty minutes later, they pulled up to the security guard hut at St. Roch Hospital. Marshall flashed his badge to the wiry old man whose nametag read "M. Johnson" and was waved into the employee parking lot.

"St. Roch is a curious name for a hospital," said Marshall as the partners passed through glass doors into the building.

"If I don't ask why, will that stop you from telling me?" replied Mary as they followed the hall towards the main lobby.

Marshall shrugged. "Sure." He said nothing more as he studied the layout of the building.

A minute passed in silence. Mary stopped and glared at her partner's back. As though sensing her eyes boring through him, Marshall turned to face Mary. "What?" he asked, raising his eyebrows as though he couldn't possibly understand why she seemed so perturbed; in actuality, the steps of this dance were familiar to both.

"Okay, fine," Mary spat out, "O wise Marshall, please do tell me why St. Roch is a curious name for a hospital?" Sarcasm dripped from her words.

Marshall smiled. "St. Roch was a French noble with a birthmark of a cross on his chest. He contracted the plague and went into the forest to die, only to be saved by a dog that brought him bread and licked his wounds."

"I so hope that's not the kind of medicine they practice here."

"He's the patron saint of surgeons."

"That's curious in relation to the dog thing, but not the hospital thing."

"He's also the patron saint of the falsely accused."

Mary knew Marshall wasn't done; his expression said there was more. All her life she'd hated know-it-alls. That is, until she'd been partnered with this doofus with the cowboy boots and the mother-of-pearl snaps—not buttons, mind you, but snaps—on his shirts. Now she found herself inexplicably lured into his mental library of inanity. Damn him. "And?" she asked.

"Of gravediggers."

Mary blinked and shook her head. "Talk about your one-stop shopping. How 'bout we find your witness and get the hell out of here?"

A marshal met the inspectors in the hospital lobby. He introduced himself as Inspector Rudy Johnson and led them to a private room on the third floor. It was a little before six in the morning; the nearly deserted halls hummed with a hushed cacophony of whispers, shuffles, and beeps.

"Did you get a copy of her file?" asked Rudy. He had weathered features topped by an equally weathered cowboy hat. He spoke with a slight drawl.

"Yeah, we read it on the trip over," answered Marshall, his brow wrinkling as he studied the slender man. "Um, pardon me for being presumptuous, but you're not from around here, are you?"

Rudy smiled, his tan cheeks crinkling into neat folds. "Don't buy me as a Norwegian bachelor farmer? You'll be glad to know I blend in much better in Houston.

"Lucky me," continued Rudy, "I'm here visiting the wife's folks—now there's a group of Vikings if I ever saw one—and the boss man calls and tells me to look after this one." He paused by a door at the end of the hall.

"We heard it was a bomb?" asked Marshall.

"Yep. Mailed to her house. By chance she dropped the darn thing trying to open it and it slid away before, you know," Rudy pauses, "ka-blooey." Mary gave the Texan a sideways glare—and people though _she_ was insensitive? Rudy shrugged and continued. "She's pretty banged up, her shoulder dislocated, but the doc says she's good to travel. Nurse'll be back soon with instructions and supplies for changing her bandages—leg got tore up pretty good. Nutjob used ball bearings as shrapnel."

Mary rolled her eyes. What had started out as a _very_ enjoyable Friday evening had morphed into a miserable Saturday morning, and she was not amused by the idea of playing nurse to a wounded witness in a city where her fellow marshals could, in fact, be the bad guys. Marshall saw his partner's scowl, not that he disagreed with her. "Come on," he nudged her with an elbow, "we get to play doctor."

"Try it, and you'll need a doctor." Mary replied.

Rudy knocked softly before opening the door. Mary and Marshall stepped into the room; Rudy followed, closing the door behind them. Their new witness sat small and huddled on the edge of the nearest of two beds, a single spot of contrast in a sea of taupe walls and beige furniture. She wore blue hospital scrubs, a black tank, and black hoodie. A black polished toenail peeked out through a hole in her socks; a pair of black Converse sneakers lay nearby on the floor. A sling kept her left arm tucked near her body. Her head hung from tired shoulders, her features hidden by greasy strands of streaky blond hair with dark roots.

"She's a quiet one," said Rudy. "Haven't gotten a single word out of her."

Marshall pulled a chair up to face his new witness and spoke softly. "Hey, Betsy. I'm Inspector Marshall Miller with the Marshal Service."

Betsy raised her head to look at Marshall, and the hair fell away from her face. The small gesture caused her to wince in pain.

"Jesus," whispered Mary, to no one in particular. Then, to Rudy: "The doctor says she's good to travel? Really? 'Cause, frankly, she doesn't look good to be upright."

Marshall turned to give Mary a _you-do-realize-she's-in-the-room?_ look.

Mary shrugged her shoulders in response to Marshall's glare.

Rudy shrugged his shoulders in response to Mary's question.

Marshall couldn't be that upset with Mary; Betsy, who peered at him with red-rimmed eyes lined with smeared traces of liner, looked like…well, like she'd been blown up. Clearly, her right side had taken most of the blast. A deep bruise encircled her right eye, underlined by a row of sutures across her cheek. Black smudges stood out against her pale skin. She kept her left hand pressed tight against her right side; from the labored sound of her breathing, Marshall assumed broken ribs. Her green eyes, glassy with tears, peered suspiciously at the lanky marshal, the strength of her gaze contrasting sharply with the exhaustion evident in her face.

"I already picked up her things from her apartment." Rudy gestured toward a small black duffel bag. Marshall watched as his new witness shifted her gaze from him to the duffel, to Mary, then back to him. He hated this part of the job. To ask someone to sever all ties to her past was hard enough—asking someone to do it again, even if she were the one to break the rules, wrenched his heart. Nothing compared to this moment, though. By all accounts, Betsy had held fast to the WITSEC rules; she'd made a clean break from her past, held down a job at a department store, and stayed off the radar. Just an ordinary, decent citizen of St. Paul, Minnesota—who'd most likely be a little more dead if she'd only been a little less clumsy.

"Is there a place to grab a cup of coffee while we wait for Miss Nightingale?" asked Mary.

"There's a waiting area down the hall with hot brown water from a vending machine—whether or not you could call it coffee is up for debate," replied Rudy.

"You want some, Marshall?"

"How could I resist, with a review like that?" said Marshall, turning his attention from his witness for only a moment before resuming contact with her questioning eyes.

Mary left the marshals with Betsy in search of the waiting area. She found it at the opposite end of the hall, but when she pushed against the door, it wouldn't budge. The knob turned, so it wasn't locked. She put her shoulder into a good shove, and it opened a few inches. "Dammit," she muttered, looking at floor. Smears of liquid red stained the peach-toned linoleum and a sensible black loafer was visible through the ajar door. Drawing her weapon, Mary cautiously peered through the small window in the door. A small café table topped with an open newspaper and a paper coffee cup sat just beyond the arc of the door; the wall behind it dripped with blood and brain matter. Craning her neck, Mary saw the overturned plastic chair, and, collapsed against the door, the wiry old guard from the parking garage, blood seeping from the gunshot wound in his forehead.

Mary turned suddenly. From somewhere behind her, she heard the click of a knob turning, the creak of a door opening.

**~To be continued~**

**Reviews feed the muse!**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks for joining me for the ride - I'd love to know what you're thinking...but please be nice! =)**

Mary aimed her Glock at the source of the sound: a door across the hall, between the waiting area and Betsy's room. She tucked herself into the doorway as best she could with the body of Mr. Johnson wedged behind it.

The door across the hall opened. A figure filled the doorway, shadowed from the hazy green flicker of the hall lights.

"U.S. Marshal! Freeze!" shouted Mary.

The shadow's arms flew above his head, sending the tray he had been carrying clattering to the floor. "Please don't shoot!" he pleaded, the softness of his squeaky voice incongruent with the bulkiness of his stature.

"Keep your hands up and face the wall!" ordered Mary, striding down the hall, keeping an eye out for anyone else who might decide to join the party. The hulking figure stepped into the light, revealing himself as twenty-something pasty-white male with craterous acne scars and prematurely thinning hair. An ID badge clipped to his blue scrubs identified him as Sandy MacDougall, nurse's aide.

Sandy trembled as he placed his palms flat against the wall. "I didn't do nothin', I swear," he said as Mary frisked him. "I was just helpin' Mr. Simon."

Mary kept a firm hand on Sandy's arm as she looked in the room. A frail old man lay in the bed, staring up at something far beyond the ceiling. Were it not for the steady up-and-down of the heart monitor, Mary could have sworn he was long beyond needing anyone's help. Mary frisked the aide; satisfied that he posed no threat, she shoved him into the room. "You stay in there and lock the door. Do not move until someone comes for you. Do you understand me?" The stunned young man stood frozen just inside the room. "I said," Mary repeated, shaking him until he snapped back into the present, "do you understand me?"

Sandy nodded his head and Mary shut the door.

She ran down the hall and burst into Betsy's room. Rudy had to jump to avoid a collision with the door. The wisecrack forming on Marshall's tongue evaporated at the sight of his partner, weapon in hand. "We need to get out of here, now," Mary said, her eyes locking on Marshall's for a moment, then returning to scan the hallway. "Guard was shot dead in the waiting room."

"Shit," Marshall responded.

Betsy covered her mouth with her good hand as a sob caught in her throat, a potent combination of fear and sadness reflected in her eyes. Marshall reached out and touched her left cheek, her green eyes meeting his blue. "We're going to get you out of here, okay? Trust me." He quickly helped her slide her feet into her shoes before pulling her to her feet.

Rudy scanned the hall, keeping an eye out from anyone approaching from the left, where the guard's blood could be seen seeping into the hall. Mary turned right, towards the nearby stairwell; Betsy, then Marshall followed. Betsy's broken body protested against the simple task of walking down stairs, even at the purposely slow pace Mary set and with Marshall's steadying hand on her elbow.

Three steps above the second-floor landing, Betsy stumbled, crying out as she crashed hard into the corner of the stairwell. Marshall nearly tumbled over her as he tried to pull her up without breaking stride. She lay heaped on the floor, unable to catch her breath. A gunshot echoed from somewhere above them. Marshall looked up towards the third floor and took a moment to hope that Inspector Johnson was okay. He knew there was nothing he could do to help the Texan; his sole responsibility was to get his witness to safety. "Hurry, Marshall!" Mary whispered fiercely as another gunshot reverberated through the stairwell.

Marshall tried to lift Betsy to her feet, but she gasped for air and her legs wouldn't hold. He knelt down and swept her into his arms. Coughs wracked her body as she tucked her head into Marshall's chest; she clung to a fistful his black blazer, struggling to breath. "Hold on Betsy, just hold on," whispered Marshall, following Mary down the stairs.

The inspectors paused before exiting the stairway on the first floor. "Keys," said Mary, breathing heavily. "Where are the keys?"

"Pants pocket," replied Marshall, turning his right hip towards Mary.

Mary reached into the pocket. "I swear," she muttered, "if I find out this was all an elaborate scheme to get me into your pants…."

The staircase dumped the inspectors into the hospital lobby, a right turn and a hallway away from the employee entrance where they'd parked the SUV.

Mary and Marshall raced across the hospital lobby, keeping close to the wall. A nurse in pink scrubs gingerly stepped out from behind the front desk, clearly torn between her fear of the blond with the gun and her concern for the blond in Marshall's arms. "Sir, please stop—your friend needs help," she pleaded.

He knew that. Betsy's grip on him had loosened and the coughing had faded to an agonizingly slow and shallow breath. "Move, move, move!" shouted Mary, knocking down the nurse and leading the way down the hall. The glass doors of the exit came into view, and, just beyond and to right, the black SUV. Mary ran the final length of the hall, paused briefly at the door, scanning for any suspicious activity. Seeing that the coast was clear, she opened the rear passenger door and waved to Marshall to hurry. Marshall allowed himself to feel a touch of relief; they were almost free.

Relief evaporated as gunshots echoed through the hall and the glass sliding door before Marshall shattered. He heard Mary scream his name as he ducked glass and bullets. Tempered shards fell across the threshold, catching under the soles of Marshall's cowboy boots and causing him to pitch forward. As if in slow motion, he watched Betsy's arm fall limply in front of him. He tried to turn as he fell, hoping to insulate her battered form from another fall.

Strong arms caught him from behind. "Up, up!" yelled Mary, pushing her partner back onto his feet before pulling him back towards the truck. She held open the back door and Marshall climbed inside with Betsy. Mary slammed the door and ran to the driver's side, ducking behind the hood as more gunshots reverberated through the early morning. Marshall shielded Betsy as best he could while pulling his gun from its holster. He heard bullets pierce the rear of the truck. Panic flashed through Marshall when he couldn't hear or see Mary; her name was on his lips when she leapt into the driver's and peeled out of the hospital parking lot.

**~To Be Continued~**


	5. Chapter 4

Mary resisted the urge to speed through the awakening city, trying to blend into the blossoming hustle and bustle of the morning. For security reasons, they wouldn't be leaving out of the same airport they arrived at; the plan was to meet the jet at the airport in Rochester, 80 miles south of St. Paul. However, the traffic she hoped to hide in was also making it more difficult for Mary to spot any possible tails. And, as if that weren't enough, there was the little matter of the witness choking and struggling for air in the backseat. Mary focused the rear-view mirror to check on her partner in the back, and gasped at what she saw there.

"Jesus Christ!" she exclaimed, turning back and reaching for her partner, nearly rear-ending the car in front of her. "Marshall—are you okay?"

"I'm fine—watch the road!" he responded, not understanding the cause of her sudden panic. Marshall then became aware of a growing dampness across his chest. He knew he was fine, which only left….

Betsy sat across his lap, her head tucked just beneath his clavicle. Her shallow breath manifested as feeble wheezes and pained coughs, under which Marshall could make out a faint, sickening gurgle. In the orange cast of dawn, the dampness that he desperately hoped would be revealed as sweat or tears showed itself as a spill of crimson across his cerulean shirt. "Damn it," he cursed, tilting Betsy's head up with his left hand; a froth of blood seeped from her lips, confirming the marshal's fears. "She's coughing up blood."

"Fuck," said Mary as she grabbed her cell. "Just…fuck."

Stan answered on the first ring. "Mary, what's up?"

"Our witness isn't travelling so well."

"What's the matter with her?"

"She was blown up, Stan," snapped Mary. Her tone morphed from anger to frustration to fatigue as she continued. "And then there was little matter of people shooting at us, and now she's coughing up blood."

"You need to get her to a hospital, Mary," Stan replied, knowing full well that Mary wouldn't have called were the answer that simple.

"Great idea, Stan," snarked Mary, "did you not hear the part about the people shooting at us? We can't stay in St. Paul."

The balding man on the other end of line sighed. "Damn. You still on the way to Rochester?"

"No, Stan. We were going to stop and see the world's largest ball of twine while we were here."

Stan ignored Mary's comment and continued. "I'll have medics from Rochester meet you halfway."

"Got it," said Mary, ending the call. "Medics from Rochester are going to meet us. She gonna hold on that long?" she asked her partner, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

Marshall looked up at Mary. He didn't want to lie, to tell her that everything was under control, but he refused to give voice to the possibility that his witness could be dying in his arms. So, he said nothing. He pulled a handkerchief from his blazer and wiped at the blood on Betsy's face. "Come on, Bets," he pleaded, trying to rouse her. "Betsy, can you hear me?" Marshall asked, smoothing her hair back from her face. The relief he felt when she opened her eyes was quickly tempered by the feel of her skin, damp and cool beneath his fingers. "Damn," he cursed.

"What now?" asked Mary, trying to keep one eye on the traffic ahead and one eye on Marshall behind." She watched as Marshall wrestled free of his blazer and tucked it around Betsy. It wasn't cold in the truck.

"She's going into shock," replied Marshall. "Ribs must have damaged her lung—could be bruised, or could be punctured. There could be internal bleeding…I just…" his voice trailed off, unsure of what more to say. His tone distressed Mary; though they hadn't been partners very long, Mary had learned that it took a lot to unsettle Marshall. He was infuriatingly steadfast and confident, regardless of the situation. He reached over the backseat and retrieved his overnight bag, using it to elevate Betsy's feet. He stroked her cheek and called her name, desperate for her to respond; but though her eyes were open, they remained stubbornly unfocused. Marshall gently laid her head on his knee, turning her onto her side, trying to keep her from aspirating on her own blood.

Once clear of the city, Mary gunned the engine, speeding down the highway. Behind her, Marshall huddled over his witness. "Breathe with me, Bets," he pled, holding her close to his chest. It could have been his mind seeking patterns in chaos, but he felt certain she was with him, struggling to match her pained and shallow breath to his steady rhythm. Marshall looked up in response to brush of fingers against his own. Mary's eyes met his for a moment. She squeezed his hand gently before turning back to the road and racing towards Rochester.

**~To be continued~**

**Reviews will make my day!**


	6. Chapter 5

The ambulance waited at the roadblock set up just south of Cannon Falls. Mary had barely brought the SUV to a stop before Marshall, assisted by a local officer, slid out of the backseat with Betsy and laid her on the waiting gurney. "I'll be right behind you," Mary called to Marshall as the officer slammed the door shut.

Mary caught up to her partner in the emergency room at Rochester Memorial Hospital. He leaned against the observation window, his upraised arm cushioning his forehead against the glass. She stood next to him, silently watching the medical staff buzz furtively around Betsy. Marshall didn't register her presence until she reached up and touched him lightly on the shoulder. He turned to face her and was met with a sympathetic half smile; he returned it with one of his own, then turned back to the window.

* * *

After nearly two hours of tests, needles, and generalized poking and prodding, Betsy was finally set up in a room of her own. While the situation seemed stable for the time being, Mary offered to go in search of food while Marshall waited to speak with the doctor. He pulled a chair close to the bed. Betsy slept fitfully, and Marshall wondered if she was being tormented by her physical injuries or some nightmare in her mind.

There was a light knock on the door before Betsy's doctor entered the room. She had a striking presence; in her red sneakers she stood nearly as tall as Marshall, and was just as lean. Salt-and-pepper waves crowned with a pair of cats-eye reading glasses cascaded from a low ponytail. She slid the glasses onto her nose as she reviewed Betsy's chart. "I'm Dr. Chris," she began. "I understand Ms. Walters is in the custody of the U.S. Marshal Service?" The tone of her voice indicated she was hoping for specifics.

Marshall wasn't offering any. "Yes, I'm Marshal Marshall Miller, and Betsy is in my custody."

Dr. Chris frowned slightly. "Well, she's a lucky one. No sign of a punctured lung or a hemothorax, which is what we concerned about. CT scan shows she's got a nasty contusion on her right lung, most likely from the impact that broke her ribs. Her chart seems to be missing an explanation regarding the cause of her injuries."

"I know," Marshall replied simply.

The doctor continued, frustrated by the secrecy and evasive attitude. "Anyhow, that's where the blood was coming from, though it's eased up quite a bit."

"So, what's the treatment?" asked Marshall.

"Not much more than rest. The biggest problem is how painful it is for her to breathe. But any painkillers are going to further slow her breathing. We gave her a low dose of morphine and we'll monitor her for any signs of respiratory distress."

Marshall jammed his hands into his jeans' pockets. "When will she be able to travel?"

"Ideally, Marshal Miller, I'd like to keep her overnight, at the very least." The doctor folded her arms across her chest.

"With all due respect, we've been in a far-from-ideal place all day."

The doctor frowned again, then sighed. "She should be monitored for another two hours or so, then we'll see how she is then."

Marshall sat back down in the chair near Betsy's bed. "Thank you, doctor."

* * *

Mary returned a little while later with a paper bag of Chinese take-out and two large sodas. Draped over arm was a maroon button-down. "I brought you a shirt from your bag." Mary held out the garment.

Marshall got up from the chair and absently removed his stained shirt, handing it to Mary in exchange for the clean one. He stood before her in his ribbed undershirt; a stray lock of hair fell across his forehead. Mary had never been oblivious to the fact that her partner was not unattractive, but he was _Marshall_, he of the inane facts and random observations and she'd never really given a thought to—_Jesus, look at those arms._

"Mare?" asked Marshall. He tugged at the shirt still in her grasp. "Can I have my shirt?" he inquired, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

Mary consciously ordered her eyes to blink. A more lady-like type would have ordered her eyes to look away. Mary was glad she wasn't more lady-like. Over her initial shock, she figured she might as well make the best of a lousy day. "You've still got," she pointed at his chest, "there's blood on your shirt."

Marshall looked down; the stained garment clung to his skin. He looked back at Mary. Her unwavering gaze hadn't gone unnoticed. He cocked his head to the side. "Some people might think you're trying to undress me."

"Pfft," muttered Mary as she shrugged her shoulders in a show of non-chalance. "If I wanted you undressed, you'd already be standing there in your socks." She tossed the clean shirt at her partner. "Go change your shirt while I dish up…lunch? Dinner? Whatever meal this is."

**~To be continued~**

**What do you think?**


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: Sorry for the slow update, my loyal readers, whom I love so dearly. I just had the damnedest time getting this trio out of the hospital. I'm still not in love with this chapter, but it gets us moving forward. Thanks to everyone who's joining me on this journey (especially the ones who stop to review--hint, hint.) =)**

"Mary, just pick a channel or turn the thing off," said Marshall as his partner cycled through the television channels for what he swore was the fiftieth time.

"Hundreds of channels—there's got to be something on," replied Mary, managing to sound at once dejected and determined. She continued to aim the remote at the TV, pushing the buttons with increasing force, as though she could bully it into producing something watchable.

Marshall sighed. In another time or place, jumping her and forcibly removing the remote from her grip might be an option—_and a fun one at that,_ he thought— but Mary was the one who'd caught a couple hours' sleep in a chair in Betsy's room while Marshall had patiently kept watch over his witness. He couldn't beat her in his exhausted state; all he could hope to gain was embarrassment and a thorough mocking. And why fight Mary for that when she'd give it away for free?

A soft gasp pulled Marshall out of his thoughts; from the hospital bed, Betsy slowly awakened from morphine-laced sleep. "Hey there, Bets," he whispered.

Groggy and achy, Betsy reluctantly opened her eyes, inviting the harsh fluorescent atmosphere to sting her dry eyes. Seeing her squint against the light, Marshall experimented with the light switches until only half the fixtures glowed. Betsy watched as he returned to her bedside; she reminded Marshall of the Mona Lisa in the way her eyes tracked him from a still face. That image faded as her brow furrowed and questions reflected in her eyes.

"I'm Marshall, remember?" he said, resting his hand on hers. "And this," he leaned sideways so Betsy could see, "is my partner, Mary Shepard. I don't believe you two were formally introduced."

Mary turned off the TV and stood. "Now that you're awake, maybe we can get out of here." She gave Marshall a soft pat on the shoulder before crossing to the door. "I'm going rustle us up a doctor," she said.

Betsy's eyes followed Mary as she left the room, taking in her surroundings before refocusing on Marshall. He waited a moment for her to say something, but she remained silent. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked gently. "We had to leave St. Roch, but you started coughing up blood. You're at a hospital in Rochester now, with a bruised lung. Hopefully you'll be released soon."

Her memories of the day's events lay jumbled in her head, like photos tossed from the mantle in an earthquake. One stood out above the rest. The first words she'd spoken her world quite literally exploded emerged soft and raspy. "The guard…he was really dead?" Her lower lip trembled and her breath caught in her throat.

Marshall reached his hand out to touch her face; she flinched, pressing her bruised cheek into the unforgiving hospital pillow. He froze so as not to startle her further, letting his hand hover near her face. "Yes, he was."

Betsy closed her eyes. Tears slid down her face and she sniffled, wincing at the pain in her chest.

"It's not your fault, if that's what you're thinking."

"I think if I hadn't been there, he'd still be alive." She turned her head away from Marshall, only to collide gently with his open palm; she didn't flinch this time, instead allowing her cheek to settle into the warmth of his hand.

Marshall said nothing, accurately sensing that Betsy wouldn't fall for empty platitudes. She closed her eyes, pressing against his hand; though she couldn't pinpoint the memory of why, she felt his touch calm her, steadying her breath as his thumb brushed across her cheekbone.

Marshall thought she'd dozed off again, when her eyes opened. "I want to go home," she said, trying to kept her voice steady. "But I don't even know where that is."

"How does Albuquerque sound?"

* * *

Marshall briefly wondered what sort of threats Mary had to make to get the doctor to release Betsy, but he was so relieved to finally be on their way, he couldn't imagine a means that wasn't justified by the ends. Unless Mary had shot the doctor—and she wouldn't really have done that, would she? No, that was ridiculous. He would have heard a gunshot.

The weary trio moved like zombies towards the exit; two displaying unusual attention to their surroundings for the undead, while the third appeared to have been on the losing end of a fight with an angry, torch-and-pitchfork-wielding mob. Betsy followed Mary down the emergency room corridor, her gait slow and stiff. With his hand resting on her good shoulder, Marshall could feel her body tremble at even this slight exertion. With a tightening grip on her shoulder, he stopped her. "Come here," he said, wrapping his left arm around her back, then bending to lift her into his arms. "Upsy-daisy."

Mary turned to see what the hold-up was, and rolled her eyes as Marshall caught up to with Betsy in his arms. Her partner's ability to shift from bad-ass to softy often confounded Mary--though she supposed, in this instance, her biggest peeve was that her feet ached and no one had volunteered to carry her ass anywhere. So hard to compete for sympathy with the blown-up chick.

After a short drive in the SUV, Mary stopped the vehicle on the tarmac at Rochester International Airport, near the waiting jet. While she grabbed the overnight bags, Marshall lifted his witness, still drugged and dozing, into arms once again. Mary slammed the tailgate shut, then stared at her partner before shaking her head with a sigh. "Are you going to carry her all the way to Albuquerque?"

"Are you willing to wait patiently while she hobbles up—and hopefully does not fall down—the stairs?"

"Are you going to keep talking about me like I'm not in the room?" interjected Betsy's soft voice, at once loopy and snide. She swung her head to face Mary and peered at her through heavy lids.

"Until you sober up—probably, yeah." Mary peered back, hands on her hips. "Besides, we're not even in a room."

Mary followed as Marshall carried Betsy carefully up the steps and into the jet. The seats near the front were arranged in pairs, with one row facing forward, one facing back, and a table between them. Marshall sat Betsy down in a window seat before sitting next to her while Mary sat in the aisle seat across the table from Marshall.

With her cheek resting on knees pulled to her chest, Betsy quietly watched from the window as the plane took off for New Mexico. The sight of the world shrinking beneath her kept her brain from re-examining the events of the day, and she was grateful for that. However, cloud cover soon obstructed her view, and the memories crept in, like roaches into a darkened kitchen. After several minutes of weary silence, she turned her head towards Marshall, resting her other cheek on her knees. "Tell me about Albuquerque," she asked softly, seeking a new distraction.

Marshall obliged by launching into a not-so-brief lesson about the city of Albuquerque, from its founding in 1706 to its days during the 1900's, when the dry climate was believed to aid patients stricken with tuberculosis. He eventually made his way to present-day Albuquerque, intentionally evoking the sound of a game-show host. "The largest hot-air balloon festival in the world takes place in October. While you wait for that, you can indulge in New Mexico's cuisine—a unique blend of Native American, European, and Mexican influences."

Mary cocked her head to the side, looking disgusted. "Jesus, Marshall—you sounds like a travel brochure."

Betsy's eyes caught Marshall's. He swore he saw a glimmer of hope in weary eyes. "Does that mean no one will ever serve me lutefisk again?" she asked earnestly.

"Probably not. Don't see a whole lot of cod in general in Albuquerque."

Betsy sighed, then coughed, whimpering softly. "I like Albuquerque," she replied, matter-of-fact, mustering a weak smile. She let her head fall against Marshall's shoulder; he reciprocated by resting his head lightly on hers. She stretched her legs out, decided she didn't like that position, then refolded them, groaning softly as she sought to settle comfortably in her seat.

After several minutes of watching Betsy squirm and her partner look pained, an exasperated Mary exclaimed, "Just do it already—you know you want to."

Marshall smiled and raised his eyebrows at his partner.

"So it came out a little dirtier than I meant it to."

Marshall stared at Mary; the straight line of her mouth and the placement of her arms across her chest said anger, but he knew her well enough to see the compassion in her eyes. For all her prickles and burrs, and whether she wanted it or it was forced upon her, Mary played the role of caretaker well. Lifting the armrest dividing their seats, her partner silently invited Betsy to stretch her legs across his lap. He wrapped an arm around her back and pulled her to his chest. They'd sat this way in the SUV, as Marshall begged her to breathe with him. To have her back in his arms, alive and safe, introduced a calm he hadn't felt since the moment before Stan's early-morning phone call. It seemed to do the same for Betsy, who drifted off, lulled by the steady rhythm of Marshall's heart.

"What is lutefisk, anyway?" asked Mary.

Marshall wrinkled his nose in pre-emptive disgust. "Dried cod soaked for several days in a lye solution, then cooked."

"Why?"

"Good question." Marshall shrugged his shoulders. "Though once you get past the rotten smell, it tastes kind of the way you imagine it would taste— like spoiled fish Jell-o."*

"Again, why?"

Marshall eventually followed Betsy's lead and dozed off as well. Mary frowned at the sight of his head resting awkwardly on Betsy's. Doofus was going to wake with a hell of a kink in his neck. Sighing, Mary rose to search the plane, returning a few minutes later with a pillow and blanket. Moving carefully, so as not wake her sleeping partner and his witness, she reclined the seats. Mary scowled at the overly hard and underly small pillow as she tucked it behind Marshall's head, eliciting a soft murmur from his lips. Without thinking, she ran her fingers through his hair and a half-smile formed on her lips.

* * *

***a) I'm not sure if I quoted this exactly right word for word, but, b) it's a quote from Andrew Zimmern on Bizarre Foods. I couldn't resist tucking it in there.**


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: Advance apologies for any typos, it's been a while since I updated and I'm just not sure about this section and what it's doing and where it's going and it just really needed to be posted and done.**

**Also, there has to go to be no IPS cliche more overused in fanfic than Marshall's airplane pajamas. And, God help me, I couldn't resist them, either. ;-) Hey, if you can't beat 'em....**

Stan rubbed a hand over his face, the too-white mercury-vapor glow of the airport conspiring with the desert's evening breeze to steal what little moisture was left in his tired eyes. He sighed as his inspectors exited the jet, relieved to have them back safe in Albuquerque after he'd sent them on a what should have been a simple transfer in Minnesota. Nearly 24 hours, two hospitals, and a gun fight later, Marshall appeared at the top of the stairs; between the five-o'clock shadow and the rust-toned stain across his right leg illuminated by the crass airport lights, he cradled Betsy in his arms, his wrinkled blazer draped across her. Mary followed close behind, overnight bags clutched in her left hand while her right steadied her partner as he descended the steep stairs.

The morphine had been wearing off when the pilot had clumsily dropped the plane onto the runway, reigniting the searing pain in Betsy's chest. Marshall willed his aching arms to hold her securely and his tired legs to maintain a smooth and steady pace down to the waiting SUV. Stan ambled towards him, hands in his pockets. The light caught in the older marshal's fringe of hair, creating a halo aglimmer with fragments of sand hanging in the chilly air. He looks like an angel, mused Marshall, followed quickly by, So, this is how tired I need to be to start hallucinating. The feel of his boots making contact with Albuquerque asphalt mercifully extinguished the image from his mind. He looked down at his witness, her eyes shut tight. "Welcome home, Bets," he said, softly rubbing his thumb along her shoulder.

"Jesus," Stan exclaimed softly as he got his first look at his newest witness, bruised and sutured and shivering. He smoothed a gentle hand across her hair.

He didn't expect the brightness of the green eye that opened to examine him.

"People keep saying that…" Betsy paused for a shallow breath, "…when they meet me." Another breath, then, "I'm starting to get a complex."

"It's because you look like you've been dead for three days," Mary interjected as she tossed the bags into the back of the truck.

Stan just looked at her, mouth open, once again rendered speechless by the complete inappropriateness of the words exiting Mary Shannon's lips; however, Marshall's small smile and Betsy's pout indicated an ease with the banter, and he let the comment lie, moving on to more pressing matters. "Next stop, Albuquerque General?" He held the rear door open and Marshall climbed in with Betsy.

"No more hospitals, I'm hungry," Betsy said, as though the two were directly related.

Leaning against the open door, Stan spoke to her as though explaining to a tired child why it was time for bed. "You look like you should be in a hospital."

Betsy leaned her head back, taking Stan in for several moments before announcing, in a voice still laced with narcotics, "And you…look like…an angel. All shiny…" her index finger traced sloppy circles in the air, "with a halo."

Stan frowned. Mary snickered. Marshall wondered if the Soal-Goldney ESP experiment really was a fraud.

Mary opened the passenger door. "We can skip the hospital. Good folks in Rochester hooked us up with enough drugs to last a week _and_ put a little extra cash in our pockets, if we were so inclined." Stan knew she was joking, but still put on his I-sure-hope-you're-joking face for good measure. Mary smiled enticingly. "Come on, Stan—we could split it three ways."

Stan looked down to see Betsy's head still lolled back, a bemused smile on her face. _Great, just what Mary needs_, he thought, _encouragement_. With a gentle paw he tucked her head against Marshall's shoulder before shutting the car door. He shook his head as he circled the vehicle and climbed into the driver's seat.

"My dope, my profit," Betsy murmured sleepily into Marshall's shirt.

"You're the user," Mary slid into the truck and shut the door. "You don't get to be the dealer in this scenario." She turned to face Marshall and Betsy in the backseat.

Marshall spoke softly. "I think you wore out your new sparring partner." He resisted the urge to let his guard down and close his eyes, instead keeping them alert to any activity outside the window.

Mary flopped back into her seat and crossed her arms. "Don't know why she should be _that_exhausted." She made eye contact with Stan, then nodded towards the back. "Doofus here carried her ass the entire way from St. Paul." Stan raised an eyebrow at Mary, silently asking if that were really true. Mary turned to look at her partner in the backseat, and the rare flash of fondness that played across her features answered Stan's question. By Jove, he'd just witnessed Mary paying someone a compliment.

* * *

In a second-floor room at the Desert Sands Motel, Marshall slouched in a brown Naugahyde chair, bare feet propped on its twin. He'd given up on the TV and his brain refused to engage in any of the games on his laptop, so he simply sat quietly, listening to the sounds of Betsy moving about in the bathroom. In hindsight, he wished he'd asked Mary to stay and help Betsy clean herself up. Instead, Stan had agreed to drop her off at the office on his way to pick up food. The sounds of humming and wordless chatter emanated from the bathroom, amusing Marshall. He wondered if it were the result of the drugs or stress or lack of sleep, or if that was just Betsy. He cringed as he made out the occasional expletive, bringing him back to the reality that she been hurt very badly by some very determined people who wanted her very dead.

Nearly an hour later, the bathroom door finally creaked open. Framed by wisps of steam, Betsy leaned against the doorway and smiled faintly, face finally scrubbed of old makeup, blood and grime; she kept her arms folded snug across her chest, supporting her busted ribs and shoulder. Her small frame swam in a chocolate brown henley borrowed from Mary and pajama pants dotted with airplanes, courtesy of Marshall. She looked at Marshall, then the floor. "I need some help," she said, biting her lower lip in embarrassment. "My hair seems to be much farther away than it used to be."

"I can probably help with that," said Marshall, rising from the chair. "Assuming there's any water left in New Mexico," he teased with a smile she returned in kind.

Marshall knelt next to Betsy as she sat against the tub and leaned her head back. He'd elicited a smile from his witness when he'd made a show of scoffing at the motel's hair care offerings and procuring a clearly superior product from his bag, displaying it like a sommelier would a fine vintage. Betsy closed her eyes as he worked the lather through her hair. His shampoo smelled crisp and fresh, like chilled cucumbers and grapefruit; she savored the sensation of it expunging the odors of smoke and blood and antiseptic that had haunted her all day.

After rinsing the conditioner from her hair using a motel water glass, Marshall briskly rubbed a towel through her damp strands. Betsy braced herself for the chore rising from the seafoam green motel tile, but Marshall stayed her with a gentle hand to her shoulder. "Hold on—one more thing." He pulled a comb out of his toiletry bag and carefully worked it through Betsy's damp tangles until the strands hung smooth and straight across her shoulders.

Betsy took Marshall's left hand in her right as he helped her up from the floor. She appeared transfixed on his hand for a moment, then looked up in confusion. "No ring? Single? Really?"

"Yes," he replied, leading her to the bed with a hand on the small of her back.

Betsy slowly sat on the edge of the bed. She looked up at Marshall, forehead creased in study. "And straight?"

"Yes, and…" he could have sworn there'd been some kind of snappy defense of his masculinity in his head somewhere. Hell, he shouldn't need a defense; he had the gun and the badge and the cowboy boots. What did her argument have? So he travels with a separate conditioner…and novelty-print pajamas…so what? He sighed. Her argument did have some validity. Which is why he was almost grateful when the motel door suddenly slammed open.

**~To be continued~**


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: Sorry about the delay in posting, that darn "real life" showed up. Plus I struggled with Stan, but I love him, so I had to bring him along for the ride, even if he was trouble. Thanks for reading...feedback is always appreciated.**

**I place the blame for the ridiculous bit about the motel porn offerings squarely on whoever wrote Once a Ponzi Time. I take no responsibility for my actions.**

**Also, Belinda's is a real hole-the-wall Mexican place in my neck of the woods with seriously yummy food.**

* * *

Stan froze in the doorway, heart suddenly filled with a mixture of fear, pride and empathy.

Fear because of the Glock aimed at his chest.

Pride because, even after 36 hours without any real sleep, his inspector showed no sign of fatigue. He stood steady between the threat and his witness, weapon in his right hand while his left kept his witness tucked squarely behind him.

And a twinge of empathy for every lowlife who'd ever found himself in the unenviable position of staring down the barrel of Inspector Marshall Mann's gun. Just a twinge, though.

Marshall sighed heavily and holstered his gun. "Sorry, Stan."

"For the record, I _did_ knock," said Stan. In his arms he balanced a large paper bag, a cardboard tray with three large drinks, as well as a shopping bag from the local mega-mart. He placed the items on a small table in the motel room while Marshall glanced out into the hall before shutting and locking the door.

"I said I was sorry," Marshall repeated. "We were in the bathroom."

Stan looked at him questioningly; Marshall offered the dampness of his rolled shirt sleeves and Betsy's wet hair as evidence against anything hinky. Stan looked Marshall up and down, stopping at his sock-clad feet. The threat of bathroom sharing fell away as another concern crept into Stan's awareness. "Are those…pigs?"

Marshall looked down and wiggled pink porcine-adorned toes. "Yes. Flying."

"And everyone thinks Mary's the crazy one." Stan shook his head and began to pull numerous foil-wrapped packages out of the paper bag.

The smell of warm spices and cilantro wafted through the room. Marshall sniffed appreciatively. "Stan must like us," he paused to smile at Betsy, "brought us Belinda's."

"Well, you hadn't pulled a gun on me at that point—in your pig socks, no less." He smiled at Betsy, "Anyhow, this is the best Mexican you'll find in Albuquerque, especially at two in the morning. Didn't know what you'd like, so I got a variety—tacos, quesadillas, a couple enchiladas, plus horchata all around."

Betsy looked at the spread uncertainly.

Stan smiled, reached into the bag and pulled out a thick foil cylinder. He peeled back an edge to reveal a stack of steaming tortillas. "And for those in the mood for something a little more plain, plenty of the best handmade tortillas anywhere, along with plenty of butter for said tortillas."

Betsy cautiously crossed the room to curl into one of the Naugahyde chairs. She took a tortilla off the stack and bit into it. She tentatively chewed for a moment before smiling and pulling the rest of the stack closer. She held a hand over her mouth as she spoke with her mouth full. "Thank you, Stan."

"You're welcome." Stan sat in the other chair while Marshall perched on the edge of the sofa.

Little time had passed before the foil-wrapped packages had been reduced to a pile of little foil balls, concentrated in front of Marshall. He slumped into the sofa and slurped appreciatively on his drink. He nodded toward the mega-mart bag. "What else did you bring us?"

Stan tipped the edge of the bag and peered inside, reminding himself of the contents. "Mary warned me that Humpty-Dumpty here—her words, not mine—might need reassembling. So, I got gauze and bandages, plus a couple magazines for me." Stan dug into the bag for a moment. "I also picked this up for you." Stan waved a toothbrush at Betsy as though taunting a small child with a lollipop.

She grinned and snatched the toothbrush from Stan. "You are _so_ my hero."

"Wait," interrupted Marshall. He gestured melodramatically with the drink in his hand, sending tiny spits of condensation onto his dinner companions. "I keep you safe from people shooting at you and _he_ gets to be the hero?"

Betsy looked at him, the kind of pity reserved for homeless schizophrenics in her eyes. "You're in witness protection, you're supposed to do that—protect. Now, witness toothbrush-providing is really going above and beyond." She meant to stand with a sharp intake of breath, turn, and stride into the bathroom, but her body refused to cooperate. Instead, she stood with a sharp intake of breath, turned, then doubled over from the stab of pain in her chest; unable to reorient herself with the chair, she had settled on settling on the floor when Marshall's hands found her waist and pulled her back onto the sofa.

Stan watched Marshall draw Betsy into his arms as she fought to catch her breath. Her right hand searched for purchase; she grabbed unsuccessfully at Marshall's bloodstained jeans before finding the loose fabric of his shirt sleeve and clenching it in her fist. Stan moved to the arm of the sofa, rested a hand on Marshall's shoulder. Marshall turned, looked at his boss with eyes so hazy and tired, that Stan just…hated. He hated the criminals they were trying to catch, hated the witnesses who were either criminals in their own right or bystanders too dumb to get out of the way. He hated the St. Paul office, hated the rat who leaked Betsy's location, the hit men who were after her. And though he'd never admit it, for a moment he hated Betsy for letting go of the bomb sent to kill her. Then he hated himself for letting the thought in. He just hated anything that put his inspectors' lives at risk. Hated it more than anything. Stan forced himself to focus on the job. The job he loved more than anything. The job that sometimes put his inspectors' lives at risk. Goddamn fucking conundrum. Stan took a deep breath as his inner tirade fizzled and his mind came back to the motel room.

Marshall had helped Betsy get back on her feet and into the bathroom. "And for the record, he," Marshall pointed at Stan, "may have brought the toothbrush, but the toothpaste is mine." Marshall shut the door on Betsy sticking out her tongue.

Stan gathered up the trash into the bag, then sat down on the sofa next to Marshall. "She's got a lot of spunk, considering."

Marshall rubbed his hands over his face, then kneaded his fingers into the tension in his neck. "Hasn't had time to stop and process."

"She'll be stopping soon."

"I know."

Betsy ceded the bathroom to Marshall after brushing her teeth. She waved off his help as she hobbled towards the bed. In the time it took her to cross the room, Stan had the covers turned down. "You had floss," she said to Marshall as she sat down, "so I guess you can be my hero, too."

"Thanks. It gets me right here," Marshall said as though accepting his Oscar, clutching his hand to his chest.

Marshall emerged from his shower feeling clean, if not refreshed—he was many hours of sleep, in his own bed, away from "refreshed." With Betsy in his PJ's, Marshall had to settle for pairing a T-shirt with a clean pair of jeans; not the height of sleeping comfort, but far more acceptable than hanging out with his boss and a witness in his underwear.

Directly across the room from the bathroom, Betsy was propped up in the bed, curled onto her right with a pillow wedged under her chest. Stan sat in a chair next to her, shoes off and tucked under the chair. Marshall had opened the bathroom door just as Stan rubbed at his face and sighed, a familiar habit of exasperation usually reserved for Mary. _And revelations about novelty socks, _mused Marshall.

Betsy wielded the TV remote, chewing her lip in indecision before turning to Stan and asking earnestly: "_Starsky and Butch_?"

Marshall took a step into the room, then turned to the TV, where Betsy scrolled through a list of the motel's "Adult" offerings. Stan remained silent, well aware that anything he said would be used against him.

"_The SpongeBob NoPants Movie_?" Betsy smiled with a tired kind of sadistic glee. "You suppose it's animated?"

Stan looked to Marshall, eyes begging for help.

Marshall shrugged his shoulders as though he didn't see any problem at all and began to unfold the sofabed. "Wasn't David Hasslehoff in that one?" he asked, conversationally.

Betsy cringed. "Oh, ew. Let's not risk it."

"Isn't there an opiate with her name on it somewhere?" asked Stan.

"No movie night for you, Stan?" teased Marshall, pulling a pill bottle out of the side pocket of his duffel. He brought two pills and a glass of water from the bathroom and handed them to Betsy. "They got _Star Whores III: Revenge of the Stiff_? Epic stuff, really. You know, if you like special effects."

Betsy swallowed the pills and half the water before handing the glass back to Marshall. Stan took it from Marshall and handed it back to Betsy; she dutifully finished off the water before scowling at Stan and handing the glass back to Marshall. "No _Star Whores_, but if you're looking for epic, they've got _The Lord of the Flings: Return of the Kink_."

"Since you've already stepped over the line I drew a mile back, I'm drawing a new one right here where hobbits meet skin flick," announced Stan, turning off the TV and setting the remote on the table out of Betsy's reach.

Marshall refilled Betsy's glass and placed it on the nightstand. "I don't think anyone here really wants to cross that line." His voice softened to sincerity. "Thanks, Stan, for staying to keep an eye on her. Just give me a couple hours, then I can take over."

"You just get some rest; I'm your boss, and I'll wake you when I decide to."

Betsy's eyes had closed in response to the irresistible pull of sleep. Marshall wanted to touch her cheek, her hair, place a goodnight kiss on her temple. But he'd also been warned about getting too close to witnesses, and didn't want to betray his attachment with Stan sitting a foot away. Besides, the "attachment" was probably just a response to an insane day where death lurked closer than usual and would most likely fade to a simple fondness as Betsy settled into her new life. After all, if it had been his partner in the bed, after that kind of day, Marshall would've wanted to kiss her too—and why didn't that analogy clarify anything?

Betsy squeezed Marshall's fingers in return. "Goodnight, Marshall. Thank you."

"Goodnight, Bets." Marshall turned out the light, then settled into the sofabed. He fell asleep before he could form a thought about how lumpy the mattress was.

"Do you mind if I leave this light on low?" Stan asked Betsy, referring to the lamp on the nightstand.

She shook her head into the pillow. "It's fine," she mumbled.

"I could move to the other side, then the light would be at your back."

Her hand awkwardly caught his little finger and the cuff of his jacket where they rested on the arm of the chair. She shook her head again, then opened one eye. "Thank you, Stan, for staying and making sure I don't stop breathing in my sleep and die."

Stan interpreted that to mean he shouldn't move from her side. He rested a hand on her head for a moment before smoothing a few errant strands of hair and tucking them behind her ear. "I'm not going anywhere. Now get some sleep."

Betsy closed her eyes and burrowed under the blankets while Stan kept vigil, one eye on a magazine he'd bought at the mega-mart, the other on the rise and fall of Betsy's chest as she slept.

* * *

Marshall awoke to the quiet but distinctive sounds of a struggle across the room. Instinctively, he reached for his gun, but halted as Stan's familiar profile came into focus against the glow from the bedside lamp. The older marshal sat on the edge of the bed, trying to still Betsy as she blindly flailed in her sleep. Marshall crossed the room in two long strides and pushed Stan aside, probably with more force than necessary.

"Get off…get off…get off!" Betsy kept repeating, alternating between an angry order and a desperate plea. Tears streamed from beneath lids shut tight.

Marshall leaned over her with one knee on the bed, trying to still her without aggravating her injuries. "Bets, come on, wake up for me."

"Marshall." Stan had caught Betsy's foot as she'd kicked. Following Stan's gaze, Marshall could see the small red stains growing among the planes on his pajamas where Betsy's kicking had torn open stitches along her right leg.

Marshall's goal switched from trying to coax her out of her nightmare to restraining her before she hurt herself any worse. He used his height to his advantage, trapping her hips beneath his torso; she struck out at him with her good arm and he caught it in his left and pinned it firmly across her chest. He cupped her bruised cheek gently in his right palm; her skin was hot and her tears were cool beneath his hand. "You're okay, Bets. You're safe. Come on, wake up."

Betsy's eyes opened with a jolt. Her lips parted as though in a scream, but no sound came out. Marshall shifted his weight off her, but leaned close, his brow nearly touching hers. "It's okay, it was just a nightmare."

Recognition flashed in Betsy's green eyes and Marshall felt her relax beneath him. He began to push himself upright, but Betsy caught a fistful of his shirt and held him close. "I tried to get away," she spoke, as though apologizing. "He was so strong…"

_Get off…. I tried to get away…. _Marshall's brain insisted on putting the pieces together, even though he didn't want to see the picture. He had to consciously unclench his jaw.

Stan appeared with a cool, wet washcloth. Marshall nodded in thanks, then gently swabbed away the tears and sweat from Betsy's face. "You want to talk about it?"

Betsy shook her head. Marshall pulled her hand from his shirt and tried to lay her back down, but she held fast to his hand and looked up at him, holding his gaze for long moments before speaking. "The guard—the one who died—was he a old guy, skinny?" she asked.

Marshall didn't immediately know who she was asking about, then remembered the security guard who'd been shot in St. Paul, the one she'd asked about before. "Yeah. That's him."

"I remember him. He was nice to me. Marcus." She smiled weakly. "Marcus, Marshall, Mary—it's a theme."

Marshall nudged Betsy toward the center of the bed so he had room to sit next to her. "What happened to him is not your fault."

"He'd be alive if I'd had the good sense to die from being blown up. He showed me pictures of his dog, a mutt he rescued from the pound. Bartholomew. Not Bart, Bartholomew. Who the hell names his dog Bartholomew?" Betsy's voice crept higher in pitch as the words came faster. "What's going to happen to his dog? They wouldn't send him back to the pound would they? He was a rescue, it wouldn't be right to send him back. Someone needs to make sure that…someone needs to take care of…." Her breath caught and tears rushed down her face.

Marshall leaned back on the pillows and pulled Betsy against his chest as the event s of the last two days hurtled back from the past. Her sobs came loud and harsh, interspersed with bouts of a deep, hacking cough that sprayed Marshall's shirt with tiny red flecks.

Stan noticed the blood, didn't like it, wanted to get her out of there, but stayed silent. He trusted the situation to Marshall, Betsy's constant companion for the last day and a half. Her cries broke his heart and he's only just met her. He rinsed the washcloth and handed it back to Marshall, who wiped at the blood on her lips, then folded the cloth over and smoothed it over her forehead.

In the absence of any good words, Marshall offered none at all, simply holding Betsy as grief and fear and pain washed through her. His hands grew restless, absently adjusting the sling on her arm and straightening her twisted shirt sleeve. He absently raked his hand through her hair as her sobs faded and sleep overtook her. He relaxed to the sound of her breathing; the rhythm, blemished by wheezes and rattles, was interpreted by Marshall's ears as the most beautiful music he'd ever heard. He placed a kiss on her forehead before lifting her head to slip out of the bed only to find Stan pulling the covers up over his and Betsy's legs.

Stan gave Marshall's shoulder a firm squeeze as he resumed his bedside post. "You did a real fine job today, inspector." Marshall nodded in appreciation. "Now sleep. That's an order."

**~To be continued~**


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N: I know, I'm slow, and this chapter is short, but I figured I ought to give you something to hold you over while I work out the details of the much meatier next chapter.**

**Reviews lure my muse out of hiding. =)**

**Disclaimer: The fact that you're reading this on a blog and not watching it on TV should be your clue that I don't own these characters. Expect for Betsy—she's mine.**

**All Bets Are Off – An IPS FanFic**

**Chapter Nine**

**Three Months Later**

Marshall lowered his shield just long enough to confirm he was still under attack. A mere five feet away, the enemy still lurked, still armed, still showing no sign of stopping. Spent ammunition collected around him. A projectile whizzed past his ear.

"Whizzed" may have been overstating it. More of a "pppbtthh."

"You had your name on the board a lot in elementary school, didn't you?"queried Marshall.

Mary just grinned from behind her desk as she launched another spitball his way. He heard it splat on the reverse side of his folder-cum-shield.

Marshall dared another look across the battlefield. "Are you ever going to get tired of this—maybe I could just leave and come back when you're done?"

Mary's response was a spitball lodged in his hair near his temple. He plucked it free and stared at it a moment. "Did you know that there are 600 different types of bacteria living in the human mouth?"

Mary put down her weapon, tilted her head, smiled that smile. "How do you get it on with anyone knowing stuff like that? Bit of a mood breaker."

He smirked. "If she's good enough, I forget."

"I see." _I'm good_, she thought, startled a bit by the image of inducing bacterial amnesia in her partner. Not entirely bothered by it, though.

"Still not one for the copious exchanging of saliva, though," Marshall explained, as though discussing nothing more risqué than what toppings he preferred on his pizza.

"Me neither. Always makes me think of dogs, all licks and drool."

Shaking his head at the unsavory collision of lovers and housepets, Marshall logged off his computer and stood. "I'd love to continue this conversation, but I need to take Betsy to see a man about a job."

"Sounds like fun," said Mary, taking a last frustrated look at her solitaire game before logging off her computer as well. "Then we can continue our conversation."

Marshall had opened the security door when he stopped and turned. "Mare," he took her arm, suddenly serious.

"What is it, Doofus?"

He leaned in close, stretching the moment, then laid a long, wet lick across her cheek, pulling back with a mischievous smile.

Mary exploded in all her indignant-child glory, pushing Marshall through the door and towards the elevator. "Ew. Ew. Ew." She grabbed his arm and wiped her face with his sleeve, then shoved him again for good measure as the elevator doors opened.

* * *

"I'm confused. Did we just slip through a wormhole and end up back in Minnesota?" Betsy stood on the curb near Marshall's truck. Mary stayed inside the vehicle, on the phone with another witness.

Marshall came around from the driver's side. "Nope, definitely still Albuquerque."

"Do I look like Abraham Lincoln? How did a log cabin end up in New Mexico? There aren't even any logs here."

"There's no dolerite stones within 150 miles of Salisbury Plain, and yet there stands Stonehenge."

Betsy cocked an eyebrow. "I hope you're not suggesting that this building was constructed by Druids."

"No, it was built in 1903 by Charles Whittlesey, who, as far as I know, was not any sort of pagan. In 1915, it became a hospital for TB patients."

South of the building stood row upon row of headstones, many of them weathered and crooked. "Right next to the cemetery—how convenient."

"Which is why Mr. Deakins purchased it in 1932." Marshall pointed out a low-slung sign nestled amid the neat landscaping.

Betsy shook her head in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding."

Marshall shrugged his shoulders. "Makeup's makeup."

"Um, I guess I'm just used to clients who, um, blink."

"Then this should be a piece of cake."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"How do you even know this guy?"

"Tango class."

"Stop talking." Betsy rubbed her forehead.

"Think of it this way—you could always work at the mall."

"I hate the mall." Betsy followed Marshall up the stone path into the Desert Bloom Mortuary and Cemetery.

**A/N: There actually is a Whittlesey House in Albuquerque and it really is a big log cabin built in 1903. The rest of its history has been changed for my convenience, as has the location of the cemetery.**

**~To Be Continued~**


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N: For the sake of this story, we're going to pretend that Mary and Marshall have been partners for more like 5-6 years instead of 3-4. I have no clue just how long this will end up being, as I don't write chronologically. I like to write the interesting parts first and then go back and fill in the gaps. So, I'm not entirely sure how it'll all play out, but I hope you enjoy the ride.**

**Inspired by the friendship Marshall shared with Norman from "Duplicate Bridge," and the idea that, every now and then, a witness becomes deeply enmeshed in a marshal's heart.**

**Reviews lure my muse out of hiding. =)**

**Disclaimer: The fact that you're reading this on a blog and not watching it on TV should be your clue that I don't own these characters. Expect for Betsy—she's mine.**

**All Bets Are Off – An IPS FanFic**

**A/N: Everything I know about courtroom procedures I learned from watching Law & Order. Advance apologies to anyone who knows anything about the law.**

******Chapter 10**

**Six Months Later**

Betsy lay sprawled face-down on the scratchy hotel bedspread. Three days of testifying in court had left her exhausted. At least one more day of cross-examination would commence in the morning.

"This isn't the classiest place ever, you might not want your face on that bedspread," commented Mary, briefly looking up from her laptop.

Betsy scrunched her nose, quantifying just how grossed out she was, then sighed. Begrudgingly, she lifted herself off the bed, flung the spread to floor, then flopped back down. "You'd think I'd know that, given my previous line of work."

The familiar rapping of "Shave and a Haircut" announced Marshall's return to the hotel room. He entered the room, bearing pizza. "How're my girls?" he chimed.

"There'd better not be pineapple on that pizza," replied Mary, dead serious expression on her face.

To an outsider, Mary's reaction might have seemed dismissive, but Betsy found it more fascinating than anything else. Marshall had checked in on "his girls" and brought food for "his girls" on more than one occasion during their trip. The first time he said it, before going to bed their first night in Baton Rouge, Betsy froze, certain that implying that Mary could somehow be owned by anyone was as wise as poking an angry cobra with a short stick. But the comment slid past with nary a snark or a scowl. There may have even been a small smile on Mary's part. Betsy felt pretty certain that Marshall was the only person who could get away with such a comment; for her part, she certainly didn't mind being Marshall's girl, even if only for a few days.

Upon Betsy's return from her after-dinner shower, Marshall produced a deck of cards and a bag of Jelly Bellies and tossed them onto the table with a thud, announcing what had become the requisite post-dinner poker game. He carefully meted out 25 candies to each of them, then showed off with a little fancy shuffling before dealing five cards apiece. Everyone anted up, then studied their cards stoically and placed their bets.

From this proper beginning, the game devolved into a version of poker the likes of which Vegas had never seen. The number one rule? Total disregard for rules.

Betsy flipped her cards over, making no effort to conceal their identities as she scowled at the image on the back. The words "Darwin, Minnesota – Home of the World's Largest Ball of Twine" framed a picture of a gazebo encasing an undeniably large ball of twine. She turned her scowl to Marshall. "I still can't believe you bought these. You didn't even go to Darwin – probably because I was in the hospital and people kept shooting at us."

"You can buy souvenirs for the Pez Memorabilia Museum without leaving the San Francisco airport – same thing."

Betsy just shook her head.

"What? It's not like you were a scintillating conversationalist at the time," interjected Mary.

A look so dirty a week's soak in Clorox wouldn't have cleaned it affixed itself to Betsy's features.

Marshall simply looked aghast.

Mary eyed her partner. "Yes, I used the word _scintillating_ in a sentence. Correctly. Now shut up and let's play."

Betsy obediently drew a card, didn't like it, stuck it back in the pile and drew another, apparently more to her liking. Several more jellybeans skittered into the pot.

"What I wouldn't give for a seven," muttered Mary.

"I've got one," volunteered Marshall. He eyed the candies before Mary. "Trade you a root beer and a coconut for it."

Mary nodded, sliding the beans towards Marshall in exchange for the card. He popped the candies in his mouth and drew another card from the pile.

The game continued in a similarly freeform manner, with unwanted cards simply tossed aside, blatant examination of other players' cards, and extensive swiping of jelly beans. Mary spent the entire game in search of a fourth queen, only to discover, once all the cards had been played, that there wasn't one.

"Of course, we weren't playing with a full deck!" She tossed her cards in the air and flopped her head on the table.

Betsy began to giggle uncontrollably and Marshall nearly spewed iced tea through his nose, overcome by the utterly ridiculous truth of Mary's exasperated outburst.

* * *

The next day's cross-examination proceeded much as expected, with the defense attorney attempting to poke holes in Betsy's recollection of events and find contradictions in her timeline.

No, it was not until after lunch that the unexpected arrived. From her seat on the witness stand, Betsy could sense the change in attack; evident in the way the defense attorney rose from her chair, a predator suddenly intoxicated with the scent of a wounded animal that's strayed from the herd. Seated at the defense table, Mr. Black, the accused leader of a vast criminal enterprise, smiled knowingly. Betsy felt a chill—she'd seen that look before, and nothing good had ever followed.

The lawyer strode towards the witness stand. "You had a sexual relationship with Mr. Black?"

"Objection," interjected the Mr. Ryan Kessler, the U.S. attorney. "relevance?"

"Just shining a little light on the character of the government's witness and her motives in testifying."

"The witness will answer the question," intoned the judge, her voice gravelly with years of a pack-a-day habit.

Betsy concentrated on maintaining her placid expression. "I had sex with him—but I don't know that you would call it a relationship."

Satisfied enough with the answer, the attorney continued. "Did anything unusual happen the week before you contacted the police with your so-called 'information'?"

"Not that I recall," she replied truthfully.

"Really?"

Betsy's brain scrambled to pull up a memory of what she could be referring to, came up empty. "Really."

"Nothing unusual with regard to your sexual relationship with Mr. Black?"

Nausea twisted in Betsy's gut, the inescapable terror of a mouse dangling from its tail over a python exhibit. From her seat in the gallery, Mary watched the blood drain from Betsy's face.

The prosecutor jumped from his seat. "Objection! This has no relevance; no one is denying that the witness was a prostitute in Mr. Black's organization, nor that she had sex with him. The defense is simply badgering."

The defense attorney didn't even flinch. Saccharin innocence infused her voice. "I'm merely trying to gauge the reliability of the witness' memory, as well as her tendency to tell the truth. Or not."

The judge considered the objection for a moment, countless fissures radiating from pursed lips. "I'll allow it."

"Your honor!"

"Sit down, Mr. Kessler."

The heated exchange barely registered with Betsy. She stared, transfixed by the eyes of Mr. Black. A young and desperate version of herself had once been convinced they were a delicate blue; she saw them now as a sickly pale haze, shallow and dull, like scratched glass.

The attorney's voice broke through her clouded thoughts. "Mr. Black raped you, didn't he?"

Behind Betsy, in a chair against the wall, Marshall's jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the defense attorney, all black stilettos and garish red suit. Wished she'd attack Betsy with something more tangible than words, give him an excuse to wipe the smug smile of false concern off that bitch's face.

Betsy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She'd been gone from that world too long, forgotten how dirty the games they played were. She answered with words Mr. Black had told her one night, spat them back at him: "Don't you know you can't rape a whore? Worst you can do is rip her off."

Marshall desperately wanted to go back to the place where this was all just a nightmare in a motel room, where he could fix it with soft words and a cool cloth, because the here and now was beyond his ability to repair.

The woman in red continued, unfazed by Betsy's venomous words, the heavy silence of the rapt onlookers in the courtroom. "Perhaps then you could describe what happened, let the jury draw its own conclusions."

The prosecutor objected once again. Betsy stared up at the judge, mouth open, waiting for her to end this spectacle—this couldn't be legal, this wasn't happening. She felt as though the floor beneath her had turned to putrid filth, swirling around the legs of the chair, relentlessly sucking her into a vile abyss.

"Objection overruled. Answer the question, Miss Warner."

_Guess we know what Cruella DeVille's evil sister is up to these days_, thought Mary.

Looking at the judge, dingy gray hair pulled into a severe bun, Betsy thought of dolls. Not the kind that little girls nurture and feed and change, but the kind with hard black eyes you find in antique stores and horror movies.

Betsy looked pleadingly at Mr. Kessler. He refused to meet her gaze. She wanted to run away, throw up, leap off the stand and throttle someone.

She asked for a glass of water.

Slowly, trying to keep her voice from wavering and the nausea from rising, Betsy recounted her last encounter with Mr. Black. How her head hit the table when he shoved her to the floor, how he tore her dress and left bruises on her hips, how the shards from the broken ashtray cut into her chest as he pinned her against the tabletop, how she bled for days afterward.

Marshall forced himself to concentrate on staying seated, fought the instinct to whisk his witness away from this danger.

Mary saw the desperate rage simmering in her partner, wished she could get him out of there. Wished she could get them all out of there.

"Wow," began the defense attorney, "I'd be really angry if that happened to me. I might even make up stories to get back at someone who did that to me." She pivoted on her toes and strode back to the defense table, ready to rest her case.

Betsy summoned that anger, turned it into a one last clipped and bitter sentence as the defense attorney opened her mouth to speak. "Then you must not know your client very well—you get used to it."

The woman in red turned sharply. "I am not--unlike you, Miss Warner--Mr. Black's whore."

Betsy cocked her head, the unexpected wrench of a nerve in her tormentor a smug shard of satisfaction in the cesspool of the day. "You're right; I may have sold him my body, but at least I never sold him my soul."

Mary and Marshall's eyes met, exchanged a silent "atta girl" for their witness.

Fury flashed bright but brief in the attorney's eyes before she addressed the court. "I have no more questions for this witness."

**~To Be Continued~**

**A/N: Sadly, in all the time I've spent in Bay Area airports I have yet to see playing cards featuring the Pez Memorabilia Museum.**


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N: For the sake of this story, we're going to pretend that Mary and Marshall have been partners for more like 5-6 years instead of 3-4. I have no clue just how long this will end up being, as I don't write chronologically. I like to write the interesting parts first and then go back and fill in the gaps. So, I'm not entirely sure how it'll all play out, but I hope you enjoy the ride.**

**Inspired by the friendship Marshall shared with Norman from "Duplicate Bridge," and the idea that, every now and then, a witness becomes deeply enmeshed in a marshal's heart.**

**Reviews lure my muse out of hiding. =)**

**Disclaimer: The fact that you're reading this on a blog and not watching it on TV should be your clue that I don't own these characters. Expect for Betsy—she's mine.**

**All Bets Are Off – An IPS FanFic**

**Chapter Eleven**

"I said, 'The witness may leave the stand,'" droned the judge, short-tempered boredom in her voice.

Betsy looked up, her mind so engrossed in processing what had just happened that basic sentence comprehension had nearly ceased. Her heart thrashed within her chest and her body trembled with the force of it. Standing seemed a sketchy proposition at best. Without warning a hand grabbed her arm and she instinctively jerked away.

_Shit_, thought Marshall. He hadn't meant to startle her, but she hadn't responded to him calling her name, either. He was grateful when she recognized him quickly and held out a hand for him to take. He helped her down the single step from the stand, pulling her close when she stumbled on wobbly legs. Her footing gained strength as Marshall and Mary escorted her to a private conference room behind the courtroom.

Marshall sat her down at the table and brought her water from the cooler, which she took appreciatively , grasping the paper cup in both hands. Mary made radio contact with the local marshals, verifying that everything was set for Betsy's departure.

A few minutes later, Mr. Kessler and his assistant, an awkward young woman with too-big eyeglasses and frizzy hair, entered the room.

"I suppose that could have gone better," he said.

Mary shot him a vicious glance. Marshall consciously kept his attention focused on his witness; he doubted his ability to see the man and refrain from throttling him.

Betsy placed the now-empty cup on the table. "You think?" Her voice started out small, then grew in strength. "You let them ambush me."

The attorney's expression remained unchanging. "I tried to object, but the judge wouldn't hear it." He shrugged his shoulders. "Don't worry, our case is fine. It's not like she said anything that wasn't true."

All eyes in the room, even the gawky assistant's, focused on the U.S. attorney in the natty suit.

Marshall could honestly say that he tried to stop Betsy, but he couldn't honestly say that he tried very hard.

In a fury, Betsy leapt from her chair; before it could finish clattering backwards onto the floor, she was on the table and lunging for Kessler. "You son of a bitch!" she shrieked.

Unfortunately, only his assistant knew he was former military with still-sharp reflexes, which didn't help Betsy as he deftly dodged her, twisting her arm behind her back and pinning her against the wall.

Marshall was already reaching for the attorney, enraged that anyone would dare lay a hand on her after her wrenching testimony of her assault, when Betsy cried out. Her scream of pain at first seemed disproportionate to the situation and the startled attorney immediately released her and stepped back. Betsy sank to her knees, forehead pressed to the wall, her left arm hanging at a grotesque angle.

"Jesus, Bets," Marshall whispered, kneeling beside her.

She cradled her left arm gingerly, trying to catch her breath.

Meanwhile, Kessler had backed out of Marshall's reach and into Mary's. She'd been waiting all afternoon to rip someone a new one, and Kessler was near the top of that list. She shoved aside the assistant and seized the prosecutor by the lapels. "You stupid little prick," she growled. "that's your star witness that you just hung out to dry." She tossed him against a wall, then grabbed him again, seething. "I'd rip your balls off if I thought I could even find them."

Normally, Marshall would try to rein in his partner were she threatening to castrate a United States attorney. Found he wasn't feeling it so much this time.

The attorney's reproductive prospects were saved by voices coming over Mary's radio. She warned him with a finger and a glare to not say a single word as she listened through her earpiece.

"Shit," Mary muttered. "Security may have been breached. We need to get out of here."

Marshall looked up from the floor. "That would have been nice information to have _before_ shit-for-brains here pulled her arm out of its socket."

The attorney interrupted, indignant. "She came after me! How was I supposed to know she was so damn fragile?"

Mary was back in his face. "Fragile?" She pulled her jacket away from her hip, flashing her gun—a show of aggression that the assembled company was _fairly_ certain she wouldn't follow through with. "It's a little present left over from when she was blown up—in an explosion that would have _killed_ anyone else—for…what was it? Oh, yeah—agreeing to testify for you."

Reasonably chastised, Kessler slunk backwards into the far corner of the room.

"Are we good to go?" Mary asked, leaning over Marshall.

Betsy remained silent, concentrating on breathing slowly through the stabbing pain.

"I'm going to have to pop her arm back into place."

Mary rubbed at tension gathering between her eyebrows. "Isn't that the kind of thing that's done in a hospital, under sedation?"

"Ideally, yes."

"Just do it," whispered Betsy. "I don't do hospitals anymore, anyway."

"That's my girl." Marshall cradled her head as he laid her back onto the carpet. "I'll do it as quick as possible." He sat next to her, braced his foot in her armpit and pulled back on arm until it slipped back into place. Betsy whimpered and rolled into a fetal position. Marshall pulled her awkwardly against him. "Shh, you did good. Just take deep, slow breaths."

Mary stretched her patience to its breaking point, giving Betsy a full four minutes to recompose herself before reminding Marshall that they needed to get the hell out of Dodge.

Two local marshals joined the trio as they carefully made their way to rear exit of the courthouse, trying to blend into the crowds of sleazebags in suits and other criminals.

Blending in became a bit of a problem, however when a single gunshot echoed through the hallway. Marshall practically fell into Betsy as he shoved her into a shallow doorway while Mary and the other marshals raised their weapons, but were unable to pick out a gunman amidst the bystanders scurrying for cover.

Marshall had Betsy pinned against the wall, left hand gripping her right arm with his right braced against the wall next to her injured shoulder. The clatter of pumps and wingtips on the tile floor seemed miles away compared to the pounding of Betsy's heart in her chest and the sound of Marshall breathing heavily near her ear. She reached out and grabbed a fistful of black blazer, held onto it tightly.

Betsy couldn't tell if hours or only moments had passed, but after several radio exchanges, the coast was determined to be clear, and the quintet quickly finished the journey to the standard black SUV idling for them at a secured area at the back of the building. One of the locals held the rear door open; Mary climbed in first, pulling Betsy behind her, and Marshall followed, slamming the door shut behind him.

Mary, juiced on adrenaline, hollered at the driver, "What are you waiting for? Go!"

The trio fell back against the seat as the truck pulled sharply away from the curb. They shared a collective cautious sigh of relief. Marshall laid his head back against the headrest and Betsy unclenched the fist that had been clinging to his jacket.

Clinging, like _sticky_ clinging. A glance at her palm confirmed her fears, though she remained paralyzed by the unreality of it. "Hey, Marshall?" she asked quietly.

He grimaced and held a hand to his side.

The paralysis broke and Betsy immediately began tugging on his shirt; Marshall pushed at her hands weakly. "Marshall," she said, louder, both a plea to be okay and a warning to not fight her.

The commotion drew Mary's attention, as well as the driver's. It took only a moment before Mary recognized her partner was not well, and that was before she saw Betsy pulling on his bloody shirt. "Change of plans," she yelled at the driver. "Hospital." She reached out to tap on Marshall's cheek, sandwiching Betsy between them. "Marshall?" she called out. "Marshall, can you hear me?"

Ignoring the pain throbbing in her shoulder, Betsy squirmed out from underneath Mary and straddled Marshall's lap. Her knee pressed into his side, causing him to groan in pain. She finally freed his shirt and tee from his pants, revealing a deep gash across his side. "Dammit, Marshall," she whispered before pulling the scarf out of her hair and holding it tight against the wound.

"Jesus, Marshall," Mary exclaimed. "When were you going to mention that you got shot?"

He turned his head to look at his partner. "Didn't think I'd have to. Figured it'd become obvious at some point." His breath shuddered and he closed his eyes. Mary brought her forehead to rest on his shoulder, was relieved to feel him respond with a squeeze when she laced her fingers with his.

**~To be continued~**


	13. Chapter 12

**A/N: For the sake of this story, we're going to pretend that Mary and Marshall have been partners for more like 5-6 years instead of 3-4. I have no clue just how long this will end up being, as I don't write chronologically. I like to write the interesting parts first and then go back and fill in the gaps. So, I'm not entirely sure how it'll all play out, but I hope you enjoy the ride.**

**Inspired by the friendship Marshall shared with Norman from "Duplicate Bridge," and the idea that, every now and then, a witness becomes deeply enmeshed in a marshal's heart.**

**Reviews lure my muse out of hiding. =)**

**Disclaimer: The fact that you're reading this on a blog and not watching it on TV should be your clue that I don't own these characters. Expect for Betsy—she's mine.**

**All Bets Are Off – An IPS FanFic**

**Chapter 12**

The hospital staff had been notified of their arrival and stood ready by the entrance when the black SUV pulled up. Betsy tumbled off of Marshall's lap and nearly onto the pavement as medical personnel pulled him from the backseat. Though clearly woozy, Marshall was able to negotiate the few steps from the truck to the gurney under his own power. Mary followed and took his hand; Marshall clasped it reassuringly. "I'm okay—get Bets out of here," he said firmly.

Mary frowned. She didn't want to leave her partner, even though she knew he was right. "You'd damn well better be okay," she threatened as he was wheeled away into the emergency room.

Betsy leaned against the side of the truck, her skin ashen and hands bloody. The driver, a fair-skinned redhead named Inspector Mike Collins, stood close to her, but not too close. He'd been present in the courtroom when Betsy had testified and tried to maintain a distance that made her feel protected rather than threatened. She hardly seemed to register his towering presence though, which is why he didn't think twice about allowing the triage nurse of merely average stature to approach.

Mary turned just in time to see the nurse reach out and touch Betsy's arm. The contact startled Betsy back in awareness. "Don't touch me!" she cried out as she jolted back and crashed into Collins.

The nurse gingerly reached his hand out again. Mary grabbed him by the back of his scrubs and pulled him away. "Leave her alone," she growled.

Betsy and Collins were caught in an awkward dance; she trying to escape his grasp while he struggled to keep her on her unsteady feet. "You're okay, no one is going to hurt you," he tried to explain calmly.

Mary laid a hand on Betsy's arm. "He's right, you're okay. Just relax."

Betsy stopped fighting against Collins. Any relief Mary felt evaporated when Betsy become dead weight in the other marshal's arms and he gently set her unconscious form on the ground.

Mary ran a hand through her hair. "Jesus, Betsy. You didn't need to relax _that _much." She stepped aside and let the nurse in.

* * *

Mary sighed, relieved to hear Marshall's familiar rap on the door, the now-customary inquiry: "How're my girls?"

Mary leaned her head back against the bathroom wall. "In here," she whispered loudly. "Keep your voice down."

Marshall paused in the doorway; the sight before him brought something not quite a smile to his face. His ass-busting partner sat on the chipped linoleum tile with Betsy curled on the floor dozing with her head on Mary's lap. Mary stroked Betsy's hair, long since returned to its natural chestnut hue, candidly protective and gentle in a way that held Marshall fixed in place.

He was reminded of a scandal that had arisen in the rural area where he grew up. The story led the local evening news, a report of a number of wild animals seized from the mansion of a wealthy recluse. Dirk Donaldson, Channel 6's Intrepid Investigative Reporter—whose hairpiece easily could have been mistaken for a refugee from said mansion—interviewed one of the handlers who'd helped transport an endangered snow leopard to a nearby wildlife rescue. The handler had spoken tenderly of the creature's beauty and strength; the camera then zoomed out to reveal an arm bandaged from palm to elbow. The big cat had mauled him, resulting in amputation of his right ring and pinky fingers. Marshall remembered how quickly his cocky teenage self had dismissed the handler as nothing short of a complete idiot—you mess with a leopard, you get your fingers torn off, end of story.

A few days later, Marshall's dad drove him and his younger siblings out to a ridge overlooking the wildlife rescue. The nearest zoo was a small affair a five hours' drive away, its only big cat an overweight tabby named Pumpernickel who scavenged behind the snack bar. Through binoculars, the elder Mann invited his children to observe the rare leopard in her enclosure. Though the panhandle couldn't have been more unlike its native mountains of central Asia, the silver cat dozed easily in the limbs of a tree. The leopard awakened at the sound of her handler entering the enclosure; though he didn't realize it, Marshall had held his breath, mesmerized by feline eyes like polished jade. As though executing the steps of a familiar dance, the cat huffed as her handler neared; he paused a beat in a show of respect, then continued his steady approach. He could have been approaching nothing more sinister than a mailbox at the end of the driveway. He reached the back of his uninjured hand towards the animal, which huffed once more before licking across the back of his fingers—_she's tasting you, you fool_, Marshall had thought—then turning her head into his palm like any housecat seeking a rub behind the ears.

Marshall had released the breath he'd been holding. This man had been this exotic creature's victim before, knew she could snap his neck and drag him into the branches of the tree before he could do a thing to save himself; still he couldn't resist her beauty, her strength, her resilience. She was an enchanted thing. Marshall realized the man was indeed a fool—but so was he.

Marshall gently shook his head free of the memory, looked down to find Mary staring up at him, eyes dark in the shadowy light filtering in from the bedroom. Their eyes met and they smiled at one another. Marshall had called from the hospital, but Mary still found herself overcome with relief at the sight of him standing over her. She covered her face as she tried to force down the emotion she felt rising within her. Marshall watched her fight to keep in control, both saddened and touched by her response to his return. The stitches in his side protested as he knelt down beside her and squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. Mary sighed and pressed her cheek against his fingers, leaning into his touch.

After a few moments, she straighten up and announced, "Welcome to the vomitorium."

Marshall sat back against the dingy peeling wallpaper. "It's a common misconception that the Roman phrase _vomitorium_ refers to a place for vomiting."

Mary glowered.

Marshall continued, "In fact, the term refers to a passageway beneath the seats of amphitheatre, whereby the patrons would exit—or, spew out, if you will—after the event."

"Well, there certainly has been spewing."

Trivia Marshall ceded to compassion Marshall. "I'm sorry. Inspector Collins said there was a bit of a scene."

"Turns out if you show up at the E.R. bloody and with a busted shoulder, and _then_ pass out, they get pretty adamant about you staying. Had to sedate her." Marshall reached down, smoothed a strand of brown hair off of Betsy's cheek. Mary continued, "Did get some good stuff for her shoulder, though."

"That what made her sick?"

"How the hell should I know?" Mary snapped, not out of anger with Marshall or Betsy, but with the situation writ large. She sighed apologetically. "Could be the drugs, the shoulder, the nightmares. Thinking about the day in general kinda makes me want to throw up, so who knows?"

**~To be continued~**

**Hope I didn't ramble on too much about the damned leopard. I just thought there needed to be some explanation of where the whole exotic animal keeper metaphor comes into existence. I just find it hard to believe that the first time Marshall came up with the idea was while hiding from assassins in a gas station after being shot. But maybe that's just me.**


End file.
